


When The Wind Is High

by tiddlypom



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-06
Updated: 2013-04-06
Packaged: 2017-12-07 03:25:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/743642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiddlypom/pseuds/tiddlypom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's fucked up, badly, and the following tells the tale of how he makes his amends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Wind Is High

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nerdyostrich](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdyostrich/gifts).



“I have to make it up to him,” was the thought repeating itself over and over in Dean’s head, “I have to do something.”

He slumped over the kitchen table, head in his hands racking his brain.

“I need to make it clear,” he thought, “how much he means to me. What I should have said.”

The kettle started to scream on the counter and he put it out of its misery with a heavy-handed press of the button and poured the water into the mug, poking the tea bag with a spoon as he did so. After letting it brew for too long and chucking the tea bag, he sat back down in his chair of solitude and stared into the mug’s watery depths.

“How can I make him see?” he thought, frustration rising. Just smelling the tea’s smooth, homely aroma reminded him of Cas. Sitting across from him, tasting the drink for the first time, being watched by celestial eyes wide and full of hope, and not going a day without drinking the stuff since. Just seeing the little whorls in the liquid’s surface made him so sure and certain of everything he’d doubted an hour ago. And just tasting it, a hundred memories flooding his mind as the tea did his tongue, gave him the determination and inspiration to do what he felt was right.

A grand gesture. That’s what he needed. Something that would scream the very thing Dean had been too scared to say. Funny how three little words can be so hard, isn’t it?

As he watched the steam rise from the cup, swirling like a Van Gogh painting, he was hit over the head with a light bulb. He smiled, the idea had a certain charm to it. It was horribly cheesy, and pretty sappy, but he reckoned that with the right execution it could be just what he’s looking for.

Gulping down the rest of the now-lukewarm tea, he ran to the student workshop, still open despite the late hour, but thankfully empty due to it. He needed to concentrate.

Grabbing some A3 paper and a dark pencil, he sketched out a few designs, making a few calculations about weight and lift along the way, but with the idea strong in his mind it hardly took any time at all. Cuing the building montage music in his head, he set about putting the frame together, aka the complicated bit - constructing it to be light but strong, flexible but firm, and making the shape just right to catch the air. He was sweating slightly by the time he had it perfect, everything had to be exact for it to work and sawing and filing the materials to such precision was no easy task.

Mid-saw, he caught his finger on the blade with a loud expletive. “Shit,” he cursed again, blood spilling from the cut onto the frame, staining it like ink on blotting paper. He had the wound cleaned and bandaged soon enough with the workshop’s first aid kit, but there was no way of getting the blood off his work. He was too tired to start again, and it wouldn’t matter much anyhow. In fact, the blood seemed to give the creation a kind of blessing. Perhaps, it would show far he was willing to go for absolution, to bleed.

He got back to work. Covering it was simple enough; he found some snowy-white fabric, almost glowing under the harsh florescent lighting, and folded it over his creation, gluing with precision. Attaching a thin piece of string with a bobbin was the final piece of structural work, and he grinned at how well it had turned out, “not too shabby.”

By this time it was getting to the wee hours, he hadn’t slept in too long and was beginning to feel it. Never one to give in to tiredness though, he wiped his forehead and made himself another cuppa at the coffee bench, deciding that although he probably wasn’t in the best frame of mind to judge whether this was a good idea, he would do it regardless.

The adhesives were all dry by the time he finished his tea, and before he began the next stage, he stood back for a moment, marvelling at his work. He wasn’t often so pleased with what he made, but there was something very genuine about this one. Nothing forced over-calculated; a labour of love.

He cast his eyes about, drifting over to where the art students usually worked, not quite sure what he was looking for, but confident when he found it. Squeezing the little golden tube out a little to start, he carefully traced the words out onto the tightly stretched fabric, hand shaking and sticking his tongue between his lips in concentration. This adding of finer details Dean admitted wasn’t one of his stronger points, but he did his best, attempting to imitate Cas’ calligraphic style of writing and mostly succeeding. He let out a sigh of mingled relief and joy. It was done.

Carefully tucking his creation under his arm and clicking off the light on his way out, he headed for Cas’ apartment with a nervous smile on his lips.

*               *               *

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this song: Kites by Simon Dupree & the Big Sound (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5MdbmY-djLg)


End file.
